


Name Recognition

by OscarTheSlouch



Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Artist Steve Rogers, Banter, Bearded Steve Rogers, Blow Jobs, Catholic Steve Rogers, Classic Movies - Freeform, Coffee, Confessional, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drunk Tony, Engagement, Established Relationship, Graham Norton - Freeform, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Howard is an alcoholic, M/M, Name Changes, Nutella, Protective Pepper Potts, Rhodey Is a Good Bro, Shoes, Steve Rogers Cooks, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir - Freeform, Tony Has Issues, Tony Stark Still Has Arc Reactor, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-10 11:05:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11690337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OscarTheSlouch/pseuds/OscarTheSlouch
Summary: Tony, in the living room, was pouring a scotch even larger than the previous one. “You can’t be Steven Stark,” he snapped, “It’s ridiculous.”“Why?” Tony refused to look at Steve, but he didn’t need to.  Tony could practically hear Steve’s furrowed brow and the serious, concerned look in his eyes.“Because,” he faltered momentarily, searching for a sane argument.  He found one, sort of, “because it’s alliterative!  I mean, who outside of Big Bird has two of the same initial?”“Tony,” Steve placed a hand on the small of Tony’s back, “what’s wrong?  Really?”“I’m sorry, but famed Nazi-fighter Captain America cannot have the initials ‘S.S.’  That’s a branding problem if I’ve ever heard one.  You’re gonna have to stay Steve Rogers,” Tony was babbling, he knew.“Tony,” Steve interrupted, “I won’t do it if you don’t want me to.  And you clearly don’t want me to.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by something on Tumblr about whether or not Steve would want to take Tony's name. I felt like Tony might have something to say about it.

7:00 pm.   Manhattan.  Stark Mansion. 1985.

“Well, I’m not sure what happened in English, but the rest is very good,” Maria laid the transcript on the starched tablecloth, smiling, “I’m proud of you, honey.  But do remember, my degree is in English, darling, so I do wish you’d try just a bit harder.”

It would have helped, Tony thought, to have tried at all.  Still, he felt a ‘C’ was pretty damn good for someone who hadn’t read a single assigned page.  Shit, his eyes had glazed over after the first sentence of Jude the Obscure.  Really, he hadn’t had a choice.  Thank god for Rhodey.  And ClifffsNotes.  

“Yeah, sure,” he agreed, “but notice I did get an ‘A’ in art history.  So I still ended up all cultured and stuff.  Don’t I look all cultured and stuff?”  Tony crossed his eyes.   Maria swatted his arm with her napkin.

“Oh, yes,” she laughed, “Very cultured.”

“And stuff.  Don’t forget the stuff.”

“How could I?  You’re all stuff.”

Tony grinned.  It was the best start to the holiday he could have hoped for, Howard away on business and a mostly suitable transcript to present to his mother.

“Hey, Mom,” he said, changing the subject, “I got a present for you.”

“Well, I’d hope so, given that Christmas is in three days.”

“Okay.  Touché.  But I also got you a right now, December 22nd present.”  He pulled out the big paper bag he had stashed under the dining room table before dinner

“Oh my goodness, Tony, what did you do?”  She said, reaching for the bag, “Should I open it now?”  She grinned.

“Oh, yeah,” Tony smiled, watching his mother as she rooted through the tissue.  He knew when she touched the first film canister because her whole face lit up.  

“Tony,” she said, wonderingly, as she pulled it free from the paper, “Where did you find this?”  She ran a hand over the faded label: _To Catch a Thief_.

“In some cardboard box in the back of a junk place.  You won’t believe how good the print is--like totally, miraculously unfaded.  Guy also had _Silk Stockings_ and _Harvey_.”  

She let out a little gasp, “Did you--?”

“No, Mom.  I just left ‘em in the box.  Sure, I thought, Christmas is coming up, and this is _literally_ a perfect gift for my mother, but I think I’ll pass--Of course, I got them!”  He laughed as she pulled all three _Thief_ reels out of the box and then continued to root through the tissue.  “Alright, Mom, bag’s empty.  Don’t get greedy.  Santa’s bringing you the other two.  You gotta have something to unwrap on Christmas morning.”

“You know Cary Grant is my favorite,” she said, running her hand lovingly over the short stack of canisters, “Can we watch it after dinner?  Or are you too--”

In the distance, a door opened and then shut, then another.  Tony felt his stomach drop.  Howard was home, three days early.

“Well, hello, Stark Family,” Howard said expansively as he came into the dining room.  He seemed to be in a good mood, but that only meant he’d been drinking. Tony felt his face settle into a neutral mask.

“Hello, dear,” Maria said brightly, “isn’t this a nice surprise?” She cut her eyes at Tony as Howard bent to kiss her cheek, “We didn’t expect you until Wednesday.  Have you had dinner?  Should I ring for Sidney or--?”  She asked as Howard settled into a chair.

“No, thanks.  Neal and I stopped for a bite on the way back from JFK,” Howard did, however, reach for an empty wine glass, helping himself to the bottle on the table.   

“Look at this, Howard,” Maria said proudly, holding up one of the film canisters, “ _To Catch a Thief_ on 16mm.  Tony got it for me.”

“Hmm,” Howard mused, sipping his wine, “tell me again, why did I buy you that VCR when you insist on using this,” he waved at the film, “totally outmoded technology?”

“I don’t know, Howard.  I told you not to,” she replied.

But Howard wasn’t listening.  His eyes had moved from Maria to Tony, as if realizing for the first time he had yet to address his only child. He cleared his throat, “So, Tony, how’d school go?”

“Fine,” Tony answered, aiming for politely chipper and managing flat.  Nonchalantly, he took the napkin from his lap and dropped it halfway over his transcript.  Maybe Howard hadn’t--

“This your transcript?” Howard said, pulling over the piece of paper, “Hey, ‘A’ in computer science, not that I’d expect any less,” he smiled at Tony over the transcript, “And an ‘A’ in chemistry,” his eyes slid down the paper.  The smile faded.

“Hey, what can I say?  ‘C’s get degrees,” Tony remarked preemptively, shrugging his shoulders,” I mean, good enough, right?”

“Yeah, sure, good enough,” Howard set the transcript down on the table with unnecessary force.  He drew out a gold pen from his coat pocket, “Sure.  It’s good enough for some people,” he began to mark the paper, blacking something out, writing something else in.  He slid it back to Tony, “Good enough for, say, Anthony Edward Smith.  Is that your name, Anthony Edward Smith?”  At the top of the page, Howard had scratched out ‘Stark’ and written in ‘Smith’ instead.

“I guess it is,” Tony said, pushing his chair back with a scrape, “Says so right here on my transcript.”  He ostentatiously crumpled the paper into a ball and shot it into Howard’s glass. It hit the wine with a satisfying ‘plop.’   

7: 00 pm.  Brooklyn.  Steve’s Apartment.

“Honey, I’m home,” Tony yelled, then slammed the door for emphasis.  He had already begun his opening monologue even as he toed his sneakers off in the foyer, “The flight was _terrible_.  Thanks for asking.  Turbulence the whole time; I swear to god, I think the pilot was trying to make me puke.  And they were out of olives.  Why even have a private plane if they don’t bother to stock the bar?  I bet Delta has olives,” Tony meandered through the flat in his sock feet, stopping off at the bar cart in the living room.  He found a glass, poured himself a very expensive (and very large) single-malt scotch, and continued to complain at top volume, “And _then_ some yahoo at the airport knocked off Happy’s side mirror and--Steve, where the hell are you?”

“Kitchen,” Steve called.

“Oh,” Tony made his way across the living room, “AND,” he said, wandering through into the dining room, “I am crazy jet-lagged from the--” his mouth wound down and sputtered to a stop. There were flickering candles and a starched tablecloth, places set with china and silver.  Appetizing smells wafted from the sideboard from several covered dishes.  He took a drink, considered the scene, and pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen, “You’re cooking dinner.”

“Yes,” Steve agreed, “I’m sorry you didn’t have a good trip.”

“Forget the trip; I’ve moved on.  You’re cooking dinner.  In a _suit_.”

“Yeah,” Steve smiled at him absently over one shoulder, stirring something on the small gas range, “well, I’m wearing an apron.”

“I can see that.” In fact, Tony could see that the apron in question was covered in pink cabbage roses.  “But you’re still wearing a suit. And cooking.  And I would like to know why that might be.” Steve pulled the saucepan off the stove, ladling its contents into a waiting gravy boat.

“I wanted us to have a nice dinner, and--oops,” he paused, wiping up some sauce he had glopped on the counter, “and there was something I wanted to ask you.”

Tony narrowed his eyes, “You do remember that you already proposed, right?  And that I already said ‘yes?’  Steve, you don’t have early-onset dementia, do you?”

Steve rolled his eyes, “No, Tony.”

“Wait, how old are you?  Like a hundred-and-fifty? Do you just have regular-onset dementia?”

“Still no,” Steve said, turning his attention to something in the oven.

“So you do remember--”

“Tony, I remember proposing to you very well,” he pulled on an oven mitt and pulled out the roast to check the meat thermometer, “and it’s is not that kind of question.”  Evidently satisfied, he set the roast on the counter.

“Then. . . “Tony slurped his drink, bouncing on his toes, “what kind of question is it?”

“I thought you were jet-lagged,” Steve muttered.

“This is me jet-lagged. Wait-- “Tony snapped his fingers, “--I got it.  Do you want a puppy?  No wait--do you want a _kid_?  Do you want a kid AND a puppy?”

“Well,” Steve admitted, “ _maybe_ , but,” he turned to face Tony, who had gone suddenly and uncharacteristically still, “not today.  Don’t worry,” he laughed and put a reassuring hand on Tony’s shoulder.

Tony remained unconvinced, “Do you want a hamster?  Because I don’t do rodents, not even ones in little plastic balls--”

“Tony, if you will leave this kitchen for the next five minutes, I promise I will not ask you for anything alive for the next five _years_.”

Tony took another sip of scotch, mulling over this proposal.  “No deal,” he said finally, “Can’t do it.  I mean, Captain America is wearing a little flowered apron in here.  And how often do you get to see that?”  Steve sighed heavily, resigned, and moved to transfer his roast to a platter.  Tony, obnoxiously, moved to peer over Steve’s shoulder, “What are we having anyway?”

“Standing rib roast with a horseradish sauce,” and, taking up a carving knife and fork, Steve began to cut the beef into thin pink slices.  “It was one of my mother’s recipes.”

“Sides?”

“Roast potatoes and green beans.”

“And you, Captain America, cooked all that?”

“I did.  Just me and my little flowered apron.  Also, could you stand back, please?  I have a knife.”

“You gonna cut me, Cap?” Tony grinned.

“I’m thinking about it.  Now get out of the way.  I’m taking this into the dining room.”

Tony obligingly swept aside for Steve and his roast.  “So,” Tony said, trading his scotch glass for a plate to serve himself from the sideboard, “you gonna tell me what you want to talk about now?”

“No, after dinner,” Steve said mildly, adding potatoes to his plate.

“But--”

“After dinner.  Now tell me, which side mirror got knocked off of which car, exactly?”

            **************************** 

Finally pushing his plate away, Tony sunk down in his chair, folding his hands across his very full stomach.

“Steve, that was delicious,” he said.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Steve smiled.

“The awesome powers of Captain America never cease to amaze.  But now,” Tony leaned forward over the table with sudden, rapt purpose, “it’s time for dessert.”

“Oh, well,” Steve placed his napkin on the table, standing, “good, because I made a cake.  Would you like coffee, too, or--” Tony grabbed his wrist before he could actually leave.

“Oh my God, Steve, sit down.”  Steve sat, nonplussed.  “Did you really bake a cake?”

“Well--”

“Nevermind.  Stupid question.  I know you did, and I bet it has fifteen layers.”  Steve frowned ever-so-slightly, as if he were considering whether or not his feelings were hurt. Tony changed tack, “And I’m sure,” he added as sincerely as he knew how, “that it will be _great_.  But maybe, since the waiting is starting to give me indigestion, we could have question time first?”

“Oh,” Steve took a breath, then broke into an irrepressible smile, “okay.  Well . . . I was speaking with Clint--”

“Big mistake.  Never speak with Clint.  Clint gives people dangerous ideas,” Tony quipped, but he could feel himself smiling, too.

Steve continued, pointedly ignoring the interruption, “And he was telling me about how when he and his wife got married, there was a big discussion as to how the minister would present them at the end of the ceremony, whether they would be Mr. and Mrs. Barton, or Mr. and Mrs. Clint Barton, or whether she would keep her maiden name, or--” he stopped, doubtless because Tony’s eyes had started to glaze over.  Tony’s attention was recaptured when Steve grabbed his hand. “Listen, Tony,” Steve said, in his most earnest, apple-pie, Captain America tone, “I love you more than anything.  And, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to take your name.”

“You wanna what now?” Tony laughed, but his smile had begun to fade.

“Tony, I’m serious.  I want to take your name.  I want the minister--”

“Non-denominational officiant,” Tony corrected.

“Regardless, I want him--”

“Or her.  Women can be non-denominational officiants these days, too--”

“Fine,” Steve agreed, refusing to be goaded, “Fine.  I would like the officiant or minister or whatever, whoever he or she might me be, to present us as Mr. Anthony Stark and Mr. Steven Stark.”  There was a beat of silence while Tony took this in.

“Nope,” said Tony abruptly, pushing his chair away from the table with a scrape, “Hey, do you want a drink?  ‘Cause I’m having one.”  He snatched his rocks glass from the table as he strode out.

“Tony!” Steve jumped up in pursuit.

Tony, in the living room, was pouring a scotch even larger than the previous one. “You can’t be Steven Stark,” he snapped, “it’s ridiculous.”

“Why?” Tony refused to look at Steve, but he didn’t need to.  Tony could practically hear Steve’s furrowed brow and the serious, concerned look in his eyes.  

“Because,” he faltered momentarily, searching for a sane argument.  He found one, sort of, “because it’s alliterative!  I mean, who outside of Big Bird has two of the same initial?”

“Are you serious?” asked Steve, incredulous, “Other than half of the people we know, you mean?  Bruce, Peter, Reed, Pepper--”

“Pep’s real name is Virginia,” Tony broke in, finger raised, “And don’t say Happy because that’s not his real name either.  Oh shit, but it _is_ Harold.”

“Tony,” Steve placed a hand on the small of Tony’s back, “what’s wrong?  Really?”

“I’m sorry, but famed Nazi-fighter Captain America _cannot_ have the initials ‘S.S.’ That’s a branding problem if I’ve ever heard one.  You’re gonna have to stay Steve Rogers,” Tony was babbling, he knew.

“Tony,” Steve interrupted, “I won’t do it if you don’t want me to.  And you _clearly_ don’t want me to.”

Tony chanced a look at Steve’s face, checking for recriminations.  This was important to Steve; the dinner was evidence of that. By all rights, Steve should be annoyed and angry; after all, Tony hadn’t actually put forward any sane or supportable reason why Steve shouldn’t be Steve Stark, but . . . Steve didn’t look angry.  Instead, he wore a sweet, winsome expression, a commingling of patience and sympathy and bemusement.  When Tony met his eyes, he smiled warmly.  Tony just ducked his head.

“I’m sorry,” Tony said finally, when he couldn’t think of anything else.  He stared down into the honey-colored depths of his glass.

“It’s fine,” Steve’s arm came around his shoulders, his lips pressing lightly into the hair at Tony’s temple. “It was supposed to make you happy, Tony, and it doesn’t so . . . it’s fine,” Steve squeezed his shoulders; “Let’s have some cake.  It’s a poundcake, so no layers.  Hope you’re not too disappointed. ”

10:00 pm.  Brooklyn.  Steve’s Apartment.

Tony actually tried to leave after the cake.  At first, Steve thought he must be misreading the situation. In Steve’s defense, it had been a long time since Tony had thanked him for dinner and then gone to sleep somewhere else.  But no, sure enough, Tony was trying to make an exit.  Steve caught him in the foyer, pulling on a shoe with one hand and texting a ride with the other, telling Steve he had a nice time and that he would _call_ him, for God’s sake.

“Tony,” Steve said reasonably, “it’s late.  Why don’t you just stay?”

“Well, I mean, I would, but Asia is, what? A 13 hour difference? And my circadian rhythm is kind of whack.  I’m gonna need, like, fifteen uninterrupted hours of sleep to function tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Steve assented, “but you should still sleep here.” He declined to add that Tony didn’t, as far as Steve could tell, even have a circadian rhythm or that, if he did, fifteen hours of uninterrupted sleep was unlikely to correct it.  In Steve’s experience, Tony’s sleeping patterns had less to do with chronobiology and more to do with caffeine consumption and mania.  

“Come on, Tony,” Steve cajoled, “I haven’t seen you for two weeks.  Don’t tell me I just bought you a brand new toothbrush for nothing.  Cost a buck seventy-five.”  Steve did not miss the fact that Tony had yet to meet his eyes, even on the laugh line.

“I just feel like I need to sleep in my own bed, Steve,” Tony said to the floor.

“Okay,” Steve sighed, “Okay.  Just so long as you aren’t leaving because of the name thing.  Because I told you that was fine.”  

Tony’s hand froze halfway towards his second shoe.

Steve, as calmly as he knew how, snatched up Tony’s other sneaker off the parquet.  It was one of the worst shoes he had ever seen, and Steve knew bad shoes.  He had spent much of World War II wearing scarlet booties like, as Tony once put it, “some sort of gay pirate.”

“Yeah, they’re pretty cool, right?” Tony said, unsure, and clearly angling to change the subject, “Reebok sent ‘em to me.  Iron Man Special Editions.  Of course, I should probably charge Reebok to wear them.  I mean, I’m basically a walking billboard.  I’m thinking a thousand per appearance for the left foot, more for the right--Um, Cap?”  Tony reached up a hand for said Reebok, but Steve, shoe in hand, had already decamped to the bedroom.  “Steve, I’m gonna need that back,” Tony called after him.

Steve kicked the door shut.  The shoe went into a box of Christmas ornaments on top of the armoire where Tony would need a chair to retrieve it.  And, speaking of Tony, there he was, tearing open the bedroom door, wearing just one sneaker and starting to go red in the face.  

“Where’s my shoe, Rogers?” Tony was still going for light, but only managed irritable. “Goddamn it, you really want me to wait out on the street in one shoe?”

“No, I don’t.  Because I want you to stay here.”

“Well,” Tony said distractedly, rifling through the clothes hamper, “hate to disappoint but--” he broke off to stick his head under the dust-ruffle, “Alright, that’s it, game over!  Where is it?” Tony now seemed genuinely angry; Steve didn’t blame him.

“Sorry, Tony,” Steve shrugged.

“Now hear this: I’m going home to sleep in my own bed, Rogers, and if I pick up tetanus or worms or whatever from the sidewalk because I’m missing a shoe, it’s your fault!”  As he spun on his heel to stalk out, Steve glimpsed the phone in the back pocket of his jeans.

“It’s in the box of Christmas ornaments,” Steve called to his retreating back, “On top of the armoire.  You’ll need a chair.”  There was swearing from the next room.

“You know what,” Tony declared on his return, plunking the chair down hard next to the wardrobe and scrabbling up, “Fuck you, Steve.”  Steve waited until he was arms-deep in ornaments before coolly plucking the cell phone from Tony’s back pocket.

“Hey! Hey!  That’s mine!” Tony protested, jerking upright with a red and gold high-top in his fist.

“And I just used it to cancel your ride,” Steve said matter-of-factly, dropping the phone into his own shirt pocket, “You can have it back,  just as soon as you tell me that you aren’t leaving because of the name thing.”

“I’m not leaving because of the name thing,” Tony said promptly, sticking out his free hand.

Steve shook his head, “Yeah, I don't believe you.”  Tony, still standing on the dining room chair, looked mutinous. “Tony,” Steve asked, “do you think I’m angry with you?”

“Hey, you said it, not me.  Now give me the phone.”  

Steve considered this.  While he was reluctant to hold Tony’s phone for ransom, Steve could also recollect their last serious disagreement in glorious Technicolor. The raised voices, followed by days of radio silence while Tony ducked his phone calls, Jarvis instructed not to let him in the penthouse elevator . . . They only made up a week later because Steve, a man who recognized the occasional need for dramatic gestures, stormed past a dozen secretaries and practically beat down the door of Tony’s office during an investors’ briefing.  Even then, it hadn't really blown over until the make-up sex.

“No,” Steve said finally, letting the phone fall back into his pocket, “sorry.  You need to stay until we work this out.”

“Work this out?  You’re holding my phone hostage!”

“Yes,” Steve agreed, “but I’m open to other suggestions.”

“I don't negotiate with terrorists,” Tony snapped, brandishing his sneaker in Steve’s face.

“You _could_ try to take the phone back, I guess,” Steve mused, rubbing his chin.  He eyed Tony deliberately up and down, from the travel-grimed hair to the unequally shod feet on the dining room chair, “But, I gotta say, I think I can take you.”

“You can think you can _take me_?”  Tony repeated incredulously.  Steve noticed Tony’s hand curling unconsciously (he hoped) into a fist.

“Yeah,” Steve said calmly, “pretty sure.”  Reaching up, he wrapped his hand around Tony’s clenched fingers.  When Tony tried to pull away, Steve just turned the fist gently in his grip, placing one soft kiss on Tony’s upturned wrist, “But maybe you’re right, Tony.  Reasonable discussion sure isn’t going well.  Maybe it’s time to get physical,” he said.  Almost imperceptibly, Tony’s clenched fist loosened, and Steve allowed himself a fraction of a smile.  He let go of Tony’s hand, reaching instead for the blazer buttons right at eye-level.

“See this, this right here?  This is why I need to leave.  You don’t respect my boundaries,” Tony declared, trying for fury but not quite getting there.  He batted at Steve half-heartedly with the sneaker as Steve unbuttoned his suit jacket and then started on his shirt.

“Tell me to stop,” Steve took the shoe from Tony’s largely unresisting grip and dropped it to the floor as he popped the last shirt buttons, “and I’ll stop.”  His hands moved to Tony’s hips, anchoring him in place as he trailed his mouth across Tony’s bare stomach.  He could feel the muscles tense under the contact, and glanced up just in time to see Tony bite his lower lip.    

“You know,” Tony continued stubbornly a moment later, “I generally make it a point not to sleep with people who steal my shit . . .” he trailed off, distracted by the lips edging towards the low-slung waist of his jeans.

“Tony,” Steve asked, his fingers wandering over Tony’s belly, “aren’t you ready to climb out off of that chair?”

“I mean, I would, if Captain America weren't so . . . so _handsy_.”

“You mean you would,” Steve replied mildly, hands still caressing, “if you didn’t think I was angry with you.  Because of the name thing.  Which, by the way, I’m still not.”

“No,” Tony raised a protesting finger, “No!  I, in fact, am angry with _you_ because of the shoe thing.  And--”

Steve broke in before Tony picked up too much steam, “But _I’m_ not angry, Tony.  Do you hear me?   _I’m_ not angry.”

“--and the phone thing--” Tony continued as if he hadn’t heard.

“Tony--” Steve tried again.

“--actually, between the shoe thing and the phone thing, this is _kinda_ turning into a kidnapping thing, which--” Tony’s head tipped back against the wall with a _thunk_ when Steve’s lips wrapped around his cock.  Through the denim, Steve mouthed at the outline of Tony’s growing erection. When Steve glanced up from beneath his lashes, Tony was looking back with an expression of wonder, mouth open but wordless, one hand pressed to the wall and the other in a fist on top of the armoire.

“Tony,” Steve said, pulling back to unzip Tony’s fly, “for the last time: I’m not angry with you. Say it.”

“You’re not angry,” Tony murmured.  And while he wasn’t entirely convincing, Steve decided it was about as good as it was likely to get.  

“And you’re going to stay here tonight,” Steve directed.  When he didn’t get an immediate response, he spit in his hand and then stuck it in Tony’s pants.

“And I’m going to stay,” Tony agreed abruptly, his knees buckling, “This is coercion, Steve.”

“No.  This is me making you understand the only way I know how.”

*****************************************

Then Steve’s arms were around him, one under Tony’s knees and one behind his back, sweeping him off the chair and into his massive arms like a bride.  Steve chucked him, rather unceremoniously, onto the bed, tugging off his hold-out sneaker, followed by his jeans.

“Take off your shirt and jacket,” Steve directed, shucking off his own suit in something like record time.  Tony complied, managing only the vaguest show of reluctance--a single, put-upon eye-roll.

“Here,” Tony held up his discarded clothes, as if Steve were some sort of servant, “the jacket’s Zegna so, you know, actually hang it up.”  Steve’s suit, Tony noticed, had only warranted being thrown over a chair.

“Sure,” Steve agreed, pulling a paper-covered dry-cleaner’s hanger from the wardrobe. Tony almost got the “no wire-hangers ever” line out of his mouth before Steve was on him, his mouth locked over Tony’s in a wet, open-mouthed kiss that made Tony light-headed after two weeks of abstinence.   In his mind’s eye, he could see himself standing on the dining room chair by the armoire, wearing one stupid shoe, shirt and jacket hanging open, with Steve’s mouth on his cock.  Holy shit--it was somebody’s ridiculous gay Cinderella fantasy come to life.  And fuck, Tony wanted in.  He didn't want to fight with Steve; it fucking killed him to fight with Steve, and he was only doing it to--he wasn't even sure. Steve’s mouth slid from Tony’s lips to his jaw, biting along the bone, licking under his chin.  It was hot; it was perfect . . . he moaned, throwing his head back to expose his throat.

He wanted, more than anything, for it to be okay, for Steve to say that everything was alright and, for once, to actually believe it.  But if it had been Steve who had pulled that shit earlier?  If Tony had asked to take Steve’s name and gotten some weird, lame-ass ‘no’ in response? A. His ego would never have recovered, and B. he wouldn’t have stopped pestering Steve until he had gotten a true and coherent explanation.  With Tony in the driver’s seat, the whole episode would probably have devolved into a shouting match, whereas Steve simply had too much self-control.  Now the whole name thing was just out there, festering, waiting to . . .

Tony jerked back to the present with a shock.  Steve’s hot mouth on his neck, the hand sliding across his chest, had come to a halt.  His erection had wilted to the point of non-existence. When had that happened exactly?  And now Steve was leaning over him with the saddest, most endearing expression on his face, one hand softly combing through Tony’s hair.

“Hey,” Steve whispered, acknowledging Tony’s return.  And there was a lump in Tony’s throat, one that made him bite the inside of his lip against the sudden upwelling of unhappiness.  He scrubbed at his face with his hands.

“Steve--” Tony began and then stopped, unsure what he even meant to say.  If he asked Steve not to be angry, Steve would say he wasn’t angry.  If he asked for forgiveness, Steve would say there was nothing to forgive.  “Shit,” he said instead.

Steve wordlessly pulled the covers back for both of them and switched out the lamp. Tony, in the darkness, and almost despite himself, pressed against Steve’s broad chest, nestling his cheek against the great, beating heart, clinging to the reassuring physical comfort.  Steve wrapped around him tenderly, resting his chin on top of his head and his arm around his waist.

“Don't . . . don't do that, Steve,” Tony murmured, suddenly and truly overwhelmed by exhaustion but still scrabbling at waking anxieties, “I bet I stink. I didn’t shower. I was going to.”

“It’s fine,” Steve’s fingers were back in his doubtless dirty hair, gently carding it over and over.  “Do it tomorrow.”

“And I didn’t brush my teeth.”  The heat of Steve’s body, the fingers in his hair--Tony felt as if he were being pulled under.

Steve’s lips brushed his forehead, “I didn’t either.”

“Steve,” Tony murmured, his eyes slipping shut.  He felt Steve’s arm tighten around him.  Soon, he was asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks, sorry for the wait. School started again; I do so hate it when real work gets in the way of my fan-girling. You may also notice that what was originally supposed to be two chapters has now been pushed to three. (The sex scene went on longer than its originally allotted pages. Yeah?) Anyway, I promise that three will ACTUALLY be it for this one, and the third is mostly written already.

11:45 pm. Cambridge. Theta Delta Chi Fraternity House. 1986.

It was almost midnight, on a Friday no less, and Tony wasn’t totally shit-faced.  Honestly, he felt proud sort of proud of himself.  He wasn’t sober or anything, but this time last week he’d been heaving into some random flower bush while Rhodey patted his back and told him to “let it all out, man.”  He’d decided then and there that grain alcohol was not his friend.

So, tonight, he had stuck with beer, in more or less reasonable quantities, and the gods were now smiling on him for his virtue.  Lo, they had sent him a vision.  She was poured into an electric blue mini dress at least one size too small and wobbling gently on her patent stilettos.  Her hair, an outsized mane of red curls, was snagged on the rack of a taxidermied deer.

“You seem to be having some trouble,” he remarked casually, sidling over, “I brought you a drink since it looks like you might be here awhile.”

She laughed, twisting on her inadvertent hook to get a look at him.  He gave her his most charming smile over the rim of an extended Solo cup.

“Thanks,” she smiled back, accepting the drink, “and, look, how nice.  The hunch punch matches my dress.”

“I always try to match my drinks to my clothes, in case of spills.”

“Well, sure, doesn’t everybody?  Hey,” she said, waving at the tangle of horn and hair, “you wouldn’t consider helping a girl out?”

“I certainly would,” and Tony stepped close, his deft fingers working gently at the soft red snarl.  He had her free in an instant and then slid his hands out slowly from her cloud of hair.  

“Thank you,” and she was blushing just a little under her make-up, the flush of color spreading alluringly down her throat to tinge the tops of her breasts.  “Listen,” she said, laying a manicured hand on his arm, “you don’t want to dance, do you?”  

By the end of “Raspberry Beret,” they were more or less making out on the dance floor. Her curly hair was springy under his fingers, and she tasted like vodka and lip-gloss.  It was kind of great, but then he was also incredibly horny and maybe not the best judge.

The song ended, and the strains of “Careless Whisper” began.  She took his hand and started to pull him through the crush of undergraduates.  The gods were definitely smiling; the sight of her mini-skirted ass weaving through the crowd was almost enough to make him swear off liquor for life.  Almost.

She took him to the front door, holding his hand as they went outside to sit together on the brownstone’s stoop.  She looked at him from beneath her long lashes, her blue eyes bright and sly, then leaned forward and kissed him lustfully, her fingernails grazing his scalp.  She pulled back with a satisfied smack.

“Hiya.  It was so loud in there; I hope you don’t mind.  We haven’t been formally introduced,” she said, an ironic little quirk to her mouth as she stuck out her hand.  “I’m Kimberly Baxter.  Everyone calls me Kimmy.”  Tony felt himself smiling back and took her slim fingers, giving them a firm shake.

“Tony.  Tony--”  

Fuck.  Fuckity fuck fuck.  He was 96% sure she was a freshman, but that still made her at least 18.  Tony, for his part, was celebrating his sixteenth birthday . . .  in another three months.  If he told her his name, that was fucking _it_.  Do not pass go; do not collect two-hundred dollars. Everybody at MIT knew about Tony Stark, weirdo genius, top-of-the-class, and only fifteen fucking years old.  From personal experience, he knew that coeds would not continue to grope you once they knew you weren’t legally old enough to drive.  

“Tony Nelson,” he said, remembering just too late that Tony Nelson was a character from _I Dream of Genie_.  There was no way she wouldn’t call ‘bullshit’ . . .

“Hi, Tony,” she said, grinning, “Listen, would you--” It didn’t matter what she said next because Tony would agree no matter what.   _Would you regrout my bathroom?  Yes.  Would you give me a million dollars and let me bet it all on black?  Yes._ “Would you wait here a second,” she asked instead, “while I talk with my roommate?  Then maybe you’d walk me back to my dorm?”  Her eyes raked him up and down with lascivious promise.  He could practically feel the condoms burning in his wallet.

“I’d never let a girl walk home alone.  Campus is a dangerous neighborhood.  Last week, I got mugged by a kid with a slide-rule.”

She squeezed his shoulder as she stood and went back into the house.  The pair of girls emerged five minutes later, clutching at each other and giggling.  The roommate, Tony noticed, was about one electric blue dress size smaller than Kimmy.  

“Therese wanted to meet you, just in case you turn out to be the Boston Strangler.”  

He reached up to shake Therese’s hand.

“Oh, hey.  I know you,” she said, with a note of recognition, “you’re in my machine vision class.”  And then she put the face with the name, and her smile abruptly fell away, “Tony Nelson, huh?” Her handshake tightened painfully and deliberately around his fingers.  “Isn’t that Larry Hagman’s character from _I Dream of Genie_?  That’s cute, but my girl here forgot her harem pants.”  Therese practically threw Tony’s hand back at him when she released his crushed fingers.

Kimmy was looking back and forth between them; she wasn’t smiling anymore, either.  Was there such a thing as a reverse boner?  If so, Tony had one.  Therese now had Kimmy by the arm, and she was hissing in her ear.  Kimmy’s blue eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in fury, her face now just about as red as her hair.

“You, you--” Kimmy was spluttering with rage and embarrassment.

“Tony Stark, you are a raging asshole,” Therese said helpfully.

“I would have been a rapist, Stark!  A rapist!” Kimmy finally managed, storming down the steps and then down the street.  Therese and Tony watched her go, one in triumph and one in abject humiliation.

“See you in machine vision, Stark,” Therese said.  Her hand made contact with the side of his face simultaneously with the word ‘Stark.’

His cheek burned for hours after the handprint had faded.  So much for smiling gods.  Tony decided he was switching back to liquor.

*****************************************

Forty-five minutes later, Tony was vomiting in a rose bush.  He heaved up the last of the boozy-smelling bile while on his hands and knees and then rolled onto his back in the grass.  He fervently hoped he would just die.  Machine vision was at eight am on Monday, and he was pretty sure he could never show his face there again.  That meant he’d have to drop.  And _that_ meant he’d have to explain why he’d dropped to Howard.  He groaned weakly and closed his eyes.

“Tony, how many times are we gonna do this?  The answer had better not be ‘every Friday night for the next three years.’”  Tony cracked open one eye.  Rhodey loomed over him, disapproval writ over every inch of his face, and looking weary.  Tony felt a pang of guilt; eighteen-year-olds weren’t supposed to look weary.  Rhodey reached down a hand, but Tony just shook his head, and Rhodey sighed, resigned, and then settled himself heavily on the grass beside Tony.  In silence, they gazed upward at the handful of dim stars visible through the light pollution.

“I heard about the thing with Kimmy Baxter,” Rhodey said finally, “Brutal.”

“Yep.  Her roommate’s in my machine vision class, did they tell you that?”

“Bummer.  You gonna drop it?”

“Oh, yeah.  Big time.”  Tony felt a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.  He let his head flop sideways to momentarily rest his cheek against Rhodey’s knuckles.  “Rhodey, what kind of parent lets their kid go to college out-of-state when they’re fifteen?”

“Your kind, I guess,” Rhodey said, hesitantly, “But I thought you wanted to come.  You told me you begged your dad for weeks.”

“I did beg.  I just never thought he’d say ‘yes.’  High school girls love me, Rhodey,” he lamented, “They _love_ me.  Do you know how many girls asked me to Sadie Hawkins last year?  Eight.”

“And how many of those girls did you take?”

“Eight,” but even that recollection wasn’t enough to make Tony feel better.  “Shit, Rhodey, do you know how many actual friends I have here?  Like, hang-out-with-pizza-on-a-Tuesday friends?”

“Uhm . . . less than eight.”

“Exactly.”

“You sorry you came?”

“Only most days,” Tony sighed.  Tony reached up to rest his hand over Rhodey’s, still clasped loyally over his shoulder.

“Well,” said Rhodey, “at least this is your last semester as Statutory Rape Bait.  We can all legally nail you come August.”

“Yeah.  I’m sure that’s what’s been holding everybody back.  It definitely has nothing to do with being the famous boy-genius freak.  Jesus, Rhodey, after this humiliation, I think I’m just going to have to change my name.”

“To what?  Major Nelson?  I heard that went well.”

“Ha.  No.  How about . . .” Who would Tony want to be, really, if he could choose?  Someone happy.  Someone sane.  Someone who didn’t vomit in bushes.  Someone Howard approved of.  “How about Steve Rogers?  That’s a solid name.  Everybody loves Captain America.”

2:00 am.  Brooklyn. Steve’s Apartment.

Steve rolled over in bed, reaching out for Tony’s hip in the dark.  When his hand met nothing but the mattress, he sat up groggily.  Tony was . . . where was Tony?  The sheets beneath his palm were cool, unoccupied for some time.  Steve sighed and swung his legs over the side of the bed, rooting on the floor for his abandoned undershirt.

As he opened the bedroom door, Steve could see the wavering light of the television shining down the short hall.  He shuffled sleepily to the living room, leaning against the doorframe.  Tony was slumped on the couch in pajama bottoms and t-shirt, feet up on the coffee table.  He was watching something in black and white, the sound turned way down.  The light of the arc-reactor, dim through his t-shirt, lit the underside of his chin in a ghostly blue.

“Hey,” Steve crossed to the sofa and sat down, propping up his own feet beside Tony’s, “what happened to jet-lagged?”

“This is me jet-lagged,” he murmured, leaning his head on Steve’s shoulder.  The movie played quietly in the darkness.

“Is that Gene Tierney?” Steve asked.

“Yeah.  You seen this one, Cap?”

“No, but,” Steve smiled, “she was just great in the last picture I saw-- _Laura_.  With Dana Howard.  Saw it with some of the boys on leave.”  From the corner of his eye, Steve could see Tony lift his head, watching closely, searching Steve’s face for some sign of the nameless ache that mention of his own time engendered.  But Steve wasn’t sad, not now; he was content in this moment, in this time, and with Tony.  He turned his head just enough to drop a kiss in Tony’s hair, and Tony subsided back against his shoulder.     

They watched in silence as Gene Tierney took down the portrait of a sea captain from the wall of her bedroom, only to have the captain’s grizzled ghost appear to her during the dark and stormy night.

“This was one of my mom’s favorites,” Tony said quietly, his eyes fixed to the screen.  “We had this cranky old 16 mm projector, and we would watch movies when Howard was out of town, stuff she liked from when she was young.  We made popcorn on the stove, and she let me change the reels.  She would always let me stay up until the end, even on school nights.”

“Sounds swell,” Steve said gently. “You know, I never got to meet Maria.  I wish I had.” Tony only referred to Howard fleetingly (and bitterly), and Steve was exquisitely aware that this was the probably the most he had ever heard Tony talk about his mother.

“Mmm,” Tony mumbled noncommittally as the ghost and Gene Tierney moved through the frames, alive with black shadow and flickering candle-light.  It was sometime until he spoke again, head still on Steve’s shoulder and eyes still on the screen, “You know, growing up as Tony Stark, Boy Genius wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.  The boy genius part was okay, but the Tony Stark part was . . . not great.  Because,” and there was a heat to Tony’s words now, “as we all know, Howard’s A+ parenting.”  

Tony snatched the remote off the coffee table and switched off the television.  Steve could make out his unhappy face in the dark, each miserable line picked out in the blue light of the arc reactor.   “So that’s why, Steve,” he confessed, “That’s why you can’t be a Stark.  Because I barely want to be a fucking Stark.  I mean, other than the obscene amounts of money and fame,” he laughed bitterly, “there just aren’t many perks.”

“Oh, Tony,” Steve sighed and let his head tip back against the sofa.  He contemplated the high, pre-war ceilings and the shadows cast there by the fragile blue glow from Tony’s chest.  He wanted to get the next part right and waited until he had all the words arranged in his mind.  It took some time.

“My father died before I was born,” Steve said finally.  “My mother told me he was a good man.  Maybe he would have been a good father, too, but maybe not.  He might have come back changed after the war.  Lots of them did, especially the ones that saw gas.  But it was hard for Mama because she missed him, I guess, and because she had to support the both of us on her own.  I started selling papers on the corner when I was eleven, after the Crash, every day before and after school. Mama was a nurse, but she also took in laundry and mending, anything to bring some money into the house.  I didn’t see her near as much as I wanted to.  And every single day, I wished that my life was different: that my dad was still alive, that my mother didn't have to work a second shift at the hospital, that I wasn’t constantly beat up and picked on--”

“Christ, Steve,” Tony snorted, “are you trying to make me feel like an asshole for bitching about dear old Howard? Mission accomplished.”

“No,” Steve said firmly, turning towards Tony in the dark.  He reached across the sofa and found Tony’s hand, twining their fingers. “I’m not saying this to make you feel guilty.  I had it tough when I was a kid, sure, but so did you.  I know you did.  What I’m saying is, even though I wished for a different life, I wouldn’t be the man I am today without my experiences.   And I wouldn’t have met you, so I’ve had to stop wishing.   I can’t wish away my past when all of my wishes for the future are about the life I want with you.”

Tony’s face was inscrutable.  Steve continued, “You’re my other half, my team, and I thought that sharing a name would be nice.  Old-fashioned, sure, but there’s a reason people have traditions.”

“Steve,” Tony shook his head, but he was smiling, just a little bit, “we aren’t the Mets.  We don’t have to have the same team name on the jersey."

“Of course not.  We’re a family no matter what.  Sharing a name is just a symbol, and it’s not a symbol we have to embrace, if we don’t want to.”

“But you want to.”

“Before I knew how you felt, I did.  But there are other symbols, things we both want, like having a wedding or wearing rings.”  Steve nodded to the engagement band on Tony's hand, gold with a single inset ruby.  Tony pulled the hand to his chest, twisting the ring around his finger.  Steve belatedly realized that he had actually managed to speak to Tony Stark for several minutes, uninterrupted by either gibes or non-sequiturs. And he was pretty sure that Tony had actually been listening.  It was unprecedented.  And a little unsettling.  

“Tony,” Steve said, “please say something.”

Tony sighed, lost in thought, but then his mouth quirked up at one corner, like he had come to some decision and found himself unexpectedly satisfied.  Finally, he said, “Nice speech, Cap.”  

Sarcasm was reassuringly normal; Steve could feel his mouth lifting, too, “Thanks.  I wrote it out longhand yesterday, just in case.”

“I figured. As they say in the Scouts, ‘Be Prepared,’” Tony agreed.  “Did they even have scouts yet?  When you were a lad?  In approximately 1856? Too bad, ‘cause I bet you would’ve had all the badges. Hey, Steve--” and Tony kissed him.  This time, Tony tasted faintly like toothpaste instead of liquor.  Tony straddled Steve’s lap, sliding a hand into Steve’s hair.  The kiss was long and deep, and Tony was making delicious, little, happy noises in the back of his throat.  When Tony finally came up for air, he was grinning like the Cheshire cat.

“Hey, Cap, sorry for giving you blue balls earlier.  You’ll probably won’t believe this, but I suspected you might be mad at me.”

“No, really?” Steve laughed, still wildly out-of-breath.  Tony, he reflected, and not for the first time, was one hell of a kisser.  

“Maybe I could make it up to you sometime?”

“Could ‘sometime’ be now?” Steve asked hopefully, then amended, “Not that it has to be, of course.  I know you’re jet-lagged.”

“Steve,” Tony lowered himself to the floor, settling between Steve’s knees, “we’ve already established that this _is_ me jet-lagged.  Besides, nothing says ‘let’s be friends again’ quite like a three am blowjob, am I right?”  Steve felt his stomach flip.

Tony was definitely, definitely right.

*****************************************

Now that he’d had his little outburst over the clusterfuck that was and continued to be his relationship with the family name, Tony felt much better.  And it really had been a nice speech; but then, every time Steve said something nice to Tony, it turned out to be the nicest thing anyone had _ever_ said to Tony.  Steve had called Tony his life, his team, his family.  It made Tony feel lit up inside like a Christmas tree; he would almost swear that the light coming from the arc reactor was a little brighter than usual.

He twisted his engagement band around his finger, considering.  Steve had been unfailingly sweet, even though Tony’s behavior that evening had veered into the irrational/moronic.  In other words, Steve had been perfectly Steve-like all night.  Steve Rogers, with the soft, blue eyes and the long, pale lashes.  Steve Rogers, with the big hands and the gentle touch.  Steve Rogers, handsome in a hero suit and a little flowered apron.  Christ, but he loved Steve Rogers.  He didn’t deserve him, probably, but he did love him.   

Once upon a time, laying in wet grass and staring at anemic city stars, he had told Rhodey that he was changing his name to Steve Rogers, and he’d more than halfway meant it.  In that moment, if a magic door had opened for fifteen-year-old Tony, allowing him to step into someone else’s life, he would have walked right through.

Now . . . he didn’t feel that way, not exactly.  There were still days he wanted to be someone else, when he wanted a break from himself and the myriad anxieties and neuroses, from the mania and the million thoughts that flashed past his consciousness at lightning speed.  But now, unlike when he was fifteen, he had good days, too.  He had friends and meaningful work and, most of all, he had Steve.

“Tony,” Steve said, “please say something.” And then, just like that, he knew exactly what he wanted: _Anthony Edward Rogers_.   He could see it on his driver’s license, hear Pepper saying it aloud as she introduced him to a group of investors, feel the way his hand moved as he signed it on a cheque.  He wanted to be Tony Rogers, and it felt . . . right.  It felt easy.  Because of Stark Industries, he would publically carry his surname’s tangled legacy forever, but in his private life?  In his private life, he could want something different for himself, something better, saner, happier.  He could be a goddamn Rogers.  He felt his mouth twist in a private smile.   _Anthony Edward Rogers_.

“Nice speech, Cap,” he said, crawling into Steve’s lap.

“Thanks.  I wrote it out longhand yesterday, just in case.”  Ooh, Sassy Steve was a Steve Tony liked.

“I figured. As they say in the Scouts, ‘Be Prepared.’  Did they even have scouts yet?  When you were a lad?  In approximately 1856?” Tony shot back.  “Too bad, ‘cause I bet you would’ve had all the badges. Hey, Steve--” and Tony kissed him.  Steve’s mouth was deliciously hot, and when their tongues touched, Tony felt an electric thrill.  As he pulled away, he caught Steve’s full lower lip between his teeth and released it with a satisfyingly wet _pop_.

“Hey, Cap,” Tony said, raking his hands through Steve’s thick blonde hair, “sorry for giving you blue balls earlier.  You’ll probably won’t believe this, but I suspected you might be mad at me.”

“No, really?” Steve puffed, sounding like he’d just run a marathon.  It was ridiculously gratifying.

“Maybe I could make it up to you sometime?”  

“Could ‘sometime’ be now?” Steve looked almost pitifully hopeful, and Tony felt Steve’s dick twitch optimistically against his groin.  Steve added, embarrassed, “Not that it has to be, of course.  I know you’re jet-lagged.”

“Steve,” Tony slithered down Steve’s thighs and onto the floor, “we’ve already established that this _is_ me jet-lagged.  Besides, nothing says ‘let’s be friends again’ quite like a three am blowjob, am I right?”

Tony tugged off Steve’s undershirt and then moved his hands to the elastic of Steve’s boxer shorts.  Steve lifted an obliging ass so Tony could pull them down around his ankles.  Free of the cotton, Steve’s cock was already standing at attention, and Tony hadn’t even touched it yet.

“Geez, Steve,” Tony spit in his palm and then ran his slick hand over the head, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were happy to see me.”

“Give a guy a break.  I haven’t gotten any--” he broke off with a little “mmphf,” then resumed, “--in two weeks.”  

“It’s called ‘jacking off,’ Steve.  Or hadn’t they invented it yet, back in your day?”  Tony’s hand pumped up and down languidly.  The tip of Steve’s cock was leaking pre-cum now; it was almost too easy.

“Oh, no.  They’d invented it, alright.  Only, back then,” Steve’s head was thrown back, and he was panting, “they called it ‘self-abuse,’ and you had to confess it to a priest.”

“Shut. Up.”  Tony gasped in open-mouthed delight, “Are you serious?”  The mental image was glorious: the fog of incense, the hush of the church, the exotic shadows cast across Steve’s face by the confessional screen . . . “Please tell me you were a choir boy.”

“I wasn’t.”

Whatever, didn’t matter.  Steve Rogers, in his choir robes, breathless, red-faced, confessing his sexual crimes and misdemeanors to the priest--the handsome young priest in a white collar, a white collar that suddenly seemed too tight--

“What did you say?”

“What?  When?”  Steve’s eyes were uncomprehendingly huge, the pupils blown wide by arousal and near darkness.

“To the priest, Steve, what did you say to the _priest_.”

“Oh, geez, Tony,” Steve thrust both hands in his hair, raking it back from his temples, “I don't know. As little as possible.”

“Steve, I swear to God, do not ruin this for me.”

Tony took Steve's cock in his mouth, sucking hard.  When Steve began to groan, low and imploring, Tony stopped abruptly, letting Steve fall wetly from his mouth.  “Tell me, my son, what you thought about when you, ah, ‘self-abused’?”

Even in the dim light, Tony could see Steve making a face.  Talking dirty was not Steve's forte and not something he particularly enjoyed, and, if Tony had been a better person, he would have let it go.  Sadly for Steve, he was not a better person.  “I can’t give you absolution if you won’t confess your sins,” he intoned gravely.  He gave Steve’s cock another quick, encouragingly suck, then added, “And by ‘absolution’ I mean ‘blow job, if that wasn’t perfectly clear.”  

Steve’s face crumpled, clearly weighing his two bad choices: accede to Tony’s whim (always dangerous) or forgo a blow-job (heart-breaking).  “You . . . you’re a jerk, you know that?” Steve said sourly, but Tony just smiled beatifically and swept his tongue across Steve’s scrotum.  Steve groaned in delicious agony, head lolling along the back of the sofa, and then took some amusingly deep breaths, struggling to find some measure of equanimity even as Tony began languorously licking up and down his shaft.

“I thought about guys, sometimes,” he finally panted, “but mostly girls. Well, this one girl, really.  I thought about her all the time.  She was just a knock-out--a few years older than me, worked at the drugstore.  Big . . . well, you know.  She had dark hair that she always wore up, and she always wore red lipstick.  And she, uh, it seemed like she went with a lot of guys.”

Tony _had_ to stop and interject.  “Wait, wait, wait,” his glee was ill-contained, “You’re admitting that Steve Rogers likes them _slutty_?”

“I--no,” Steve’s brow furrowed, “She wasn’t--I’m sure she wasn’t-”

“Oh no, I’m sure she was a _lovely_ girl.  Always crossed her ankles when she sat down.  Didn’t cross ‘em any other time, but, hey.  You know,” Tony laughed, “your attraction to me suddenly makes a _lot_ more sense.”

“Tony,” Steve rolled his eyes, “you aren’t--”

“Slutty, Steve?  I’m not slutty?   I’ll have you know, the consummate breadth and depth of my sluttitude are a matter of public record, and my reputation is well-deserved.”  

*****************************************

Tony planted a hand on each of Steve’s knees and pushed himself off the floor to stand between Steve’s spread thighs.  For a moment, Tony looked every bit the evil genius that Steve secretly feared lurked within Tony’s soul, his expression slyly animated by some altogether nefarious purpose.

“Tony, what are you about to do to me?”  Steve’s mouth felt suddenly dry.

“Nothing.  Well, nothing you won’t like.  I’m gonna prove you like ‘em slutty, Cap.” Tony pressed an index finger was over Steve’s lips, shushing him before Steve had uttered even one syllable of protest.   

Hooking his fingers under the bottom of his t-shirt, Tony began to peel it off, one inch at a time, revealing in slow succession the jut of his pelvic bones, the thin line of dark hair trailing down from his navel, his dusky pink nipples and the arc reactor glowing coolly between them.  He let the shirt fall to the floor in a heap and then folded an arm behind his head, exposing one beautifully sculpted triceps and the shallow hollow of his axilla.  The pose reminded Steve forcibly of Michelangelo's _Dying Slave_ , particularly when Tony looked at Steve from under his lashes with big, soft, bedroom eyes.  Steve itched to reach out the last few inches towards Tony’s body and run his hands along the sculpted muscles and sinew, but, at this stage, touching felt verboten.  It were as though he was back in art school, trailing along behind his anatomy classmates in the Met’s classical gallery, staring up at the fabulous, forbidden marble bodies.  Plinth or no plinth, Tony was positively reeking exhibition, and Steve did not want to interrupt the show.

So maybe Tony was right then, in a way.  While it seemed like Captain America’s natural mate should be the proverbial girl-next-door, Steve had never really cared much for the traditionally wholesome.  Though Steve didn’t feel comfortable labeling anyone, much less Tony, a “slut,” he knew what Tony meant.  He had a type-- dark, smart, sexually confident.  God knows Peggy had been, and Bucky, and now Tony, and Steve had loved and admired each of them in their turn.

Meanwhile, the show continued, and Tony turned around to drop trou.  He wasn’t wearing underwear, and as his soft cotton pants settled around his ankles, he stepped out of them, spread his legs, and bent over slowly, sliding his palms downward from thigh to ankle.  The slow bend invited Steve’s gaze to consume his body--the rounded symmetry of gluteal muscles, the gentle undulations of thighs and calves, and the beguilingly occluded view of cock and balls.  It was too much.  

“Oh, Tony,” Steve breathed and, without meaning to, found himself standing with his erection pressed firmly against Tony’s ass.  He wrapped one big arm around the front of Tony’s shoulders, pulling him up to stand with his back pressed to Steve’s chest.  The other arm slid down, palm skimming over Tony’s stomach and his coarse thicket of pubic hair, coming finally to the head of Tony’s erect cock.  Steve gripped and began a slow, loose, stroke.  

“I told you,” Tony’s head was thrown back against Steve’s shoulder, and he panted in his ear, “You love it.”  And it was true: he did.  In answer, Steve bit down hard on the juncture of Tony’s throat and shoulder, sucking the tender skin against his teeth hard enough to elicit a gasp.  It would bruise; he wanted it to.  

“Fuck,” Tony hissed, and Steve wasn’t sure if it were due to the hickey or the inexorable up-and-down movement of his fist.

“That a request?”

“ _Yes_ ,” and Tony reached for his hand to pull him towards the bedroom.  

Trailing after Tony’s naked back, Steve recalled something else from the long, hushed afternoons in the sculpture galleries: the aching loneliness.  The statues had been close and yet untouchable, which had always seemed sad somehow.  They were so intensely life-like, it was impossible not to view them as conscious, and yet they were each marooned on their plinths, cursed to gaze at one other’s sumptuous bodies, all the while unable to experience the ecstasy of flesh on flesh.  At the time, it had been a condition he could easily relate to.  No one had been ecstatically experiencing his flesh, either.  Though, too be fair, _he_ didn’t possess the body of a marble god, at least not then.

 _How times changed_ , Steve thought ruefully as Tony pulled him onto the bed, his fingers gripping Steve’s broad back, hungrily pulling him down on top of him.  Tony’s kisses had gone sloppy with desperation, open-mouthed and wet, the usual artistry abandoned in the face of his urgency.    Steve loved this, the rare moments when Tony’s ego unraveled, freeing him from the frenetic loop of his conscious thoughts.  Tonight, Steve was both surprised and pleased that Tony had worked his way free of himself; it had to mean at least some of the issues that had been eating Tony from the inside-out all evening had resolved themselves.  Still, Steve had always found it best to keep things moving along in these circumstances, to keep Tony’s body so continually occupied, his brain had no choice but to shut the hell up for a while.

 With this goal in mind, Steve splayed one big hand against Tony’s chest, pushing him away long enough to retrieve lube from the bedside table and wet his fingers.  Tony groaned and lifted his hips and Steve pressed in one slick finger and then two.  “Do three,” Tony panted, though Steve could still clearly feel the tension in the muscle around his fingers.  Tony must have seen he was about to argue, and shut him down with a barked, “DO IT.”  The third finger made Tony hiss and go still, his eyes scrunched tight as he breathed through the burning stretch.  

“Tony?”

“It’s fine.  It’s good.  Keep going.”  But Tony’s expression didn’t look fine, so Steve kept his fingers perfectly still.  After spitting in his free hand, he wrapped it around Tony’s cock and began a slow stroke.  Though the initial reaction was an abrupt clench against his inserted fingers, he gradually felt Tony’s muscles relax around him.  Tony began to lose himself in the rhythm of Steve’s hand and, soon, he was rolling his hips against the mattress, fucking himself steadily on Steve’s three fingers as Steve jerked him off.

“So,” Tony grunted, the words falling between thrusts, “you gonna fuck me or what?”

Steve laughed, nodding towards the fingers up Tony’s ass, “I thought I was.”

“Ish, Steve.  You are fucking me-ish.”

“Well, I can do better than ‘ish,’” and Steve eased out his fingers, replacing them with his dick, pushing in gently.  He could feel Tony’s quivering impatience, but he refused to be rushed, adding more lubricant, stopping to wait when Tony’s face momentarily clouded.  Tony was incredibly tight, just a shade on the right side of painful, and so slick and hot that Steve could feel beads of sweat gathering along his hairline.  As Steve pushed in the last inch, an ecstatic groan wrenched free from Tony’s throat, probably loud enough to wake the neighbors.

Steve crushed his mouth to Tony’s, swallowing the sound.  He knew for a fact that the little old lady in the rent-controlled apartment next door was both nosy and a light sleeper, and he did not relish the thought of answering questions if he ran into her in the hallway.  But Tony--damn Tony--was kissing back ferociously, moaning into Steve’s mouth, and digging his heels into Steve’s back.  The vulnerability of Tony’s desperation, the trust implicit in his abandon . . . Steve was wholly overcome by it, better judgement and all.  Breaking away from Tony’s mouth, he pushed a hand between their bodies, finding Tony’s cock and stroking it in time with the motion of his hips.  He began to thrust with powerful strokes, sliding against Tony’s prostate with each plunge.  Tony’s wail of pleasure was now hitting decibels far outside the range of propriety, and he came with a shout, covering both their chests and stomachs in a pulse of sticky fluid.  Steve made just two more ragged thrusts before he came as well, at a volume only slightly lower than Tony’s.

He pulled out and collapsed back against the bed bonelessly, feeling as if he were deliquescing into the mattress as his eyes fluttered shut.  It could have been a moment later or an hour when he felt a damp washcloth against his chest and stomach, wiping away the clinging, faintly chlorine-smelling mess.  The cloth was pulled away, and Steve could hear it drop to the floor as Tony settled on the bed, one arm draped over Steve’s chest and one leg over his thigh.  Tony’s beard and hair were damp and smelled faintly of soap as he pressed close.  The metal lip of the arc reactor against Steve’s side was warm, as it always was, resting so close to Tony’s heart.

 


	3. Chapter 3

8:00 am.  Malibu.  The Workshop.  2008.

Tony had gotten himself up, shaved, put on a suit.  He’d even picked out a watch.  Today was nothing but damage control.  It was just keeping up appearances. He didn’t need Pepper or Rhodey to dress him, and he could make it to Pasadena on his own.  He might even drive himself.  Yes, sure, he had gotten dressed at 2 am, and, yes, it had taken a good thirty minutes to pick socks, but fashion was serious business, and the church would be crawling with press.  If he couldn’t show them grief, he could damn well show them style. Besides, since Tony had started dressing nine hours ahead of the funeral, he could spend as long as he wanted staring into the abyss of the sock drawer.

He could also, if he wanted, spend an additional six hours staring at the top of his desk.  It was his reward for good planning.

The workshop door opened with a quiet hiss, and Pepper’s high heels clicked hesitantly across the concrete.  “Tony?”  Her voice was soft, and when she got close, she smelled like perfume and espresso.  “Tony, I brought you a coffee.”  She set it down gently on the desk.  Her nails, he noticed, were painted the palest shade of petal pink, the color so delicate that it was barely there at all.  It was the first time in his recollection that Pep’s nail color had felt like a metaphor for his state of being.  It seemed like a bad sign.  He reached for the coffee.

“Hey, Tony,” the workshop door opened again, and there was Rhodey in his dress blues.  “There’s a box of donuts in the kitchen.  You want one?”  He didn’t.  He really, really didn’t.  “You want something else?  Eggs, maybe?”  

Tony shook his head.  What he wanted, what he really wanted, was to sit, in silence, staring at his desk, until the palladium in his chest corroded, and the arc reactor caught fire, and he turned into a smoking pile of ash.

“Okay, well,” Rhodey crossed the shop floor and set a hand on his shoulder, “you can watch me eat, anyway.  Come on, chatterbox.”  

Tony tried to stand up; he really did.  Or maybe he just tried to try?  In any event, nothing happened; his ass remained firmly planted on the drafting stool.  Pepper and Rhodey exchanged a look over his head, and then, each taking one arm, they hauled him upright.  He looked down at their fingers, locked around his elbows, as they marched him up the stairs.  Pepper and Rhodey pulling him uphill: it was his entire adult life in a nutshell.

*****************************************

Happy drove the car away from the cemetery.  Tony pressed his forehead to the cold glass of the tinted window and sighed.  The funeral was one, big, exhausting blur in his mind, all the way from eulogy to internment.  Tony couldn’t remember any of it: not who spoke, not the hymns.  For all he knew, there’d been bagpipes, a twenty-one gun salute, and a stripper popping out of a cake.

The ride out to Pasadena he remembered, though he wished he didn’t.  It had been an hour of exquisite hell, stuck in the back of the town car between a fidgety Pepper and a taciturn Rhodey.  He could also remember their arrival: the mass of press staked out in the churchyard like a gang of vultures, Happy leaning into the back seat with a pair of dark glasses.  Tony had stared at his reflection in the black lenses but didn’t take them.  He didn’t need sunglasses because he wasn’t going to cry.  He was pretty fucking sure you didn’t cry at the funeral of the man who stabbed you in the back--in the back metaphorically, anyway.  In reality, Obie had stabbed him in the _front_ \--“Thank you, Happy,” Pepper had said gently, taking the glasses and fitting them to Tony’s face as if he were a child.

He remembered Rhodey, tugging down the brim of his service cap and opening the car door, beating a path through the scrum.  He remembered Pepper, with a death-grip on his fingers, pulling him through the crowd in Rhodey’s wake.  Every time someone had tried to stick a microphone in his face, she had swatted it down, hissing like an angry goose.  Most of all, he remembered his name, shouted over and over, fifty times, a hundred times, until it didn’t mean anything anymore, until it was just noise in his ears.

Then what?  Stupid stuff, flashes here and there: Rhodey’s bony knee alongside his as they sat on the pew.  The itch of Pepper’s wool skirt against the back of his hand.  The mirror-shine on Rhodey’s shoes.  Pepper staggering against him when her heel sank into the ground. The smell of turned earth.  The sound of dirt as it hit the casket.

 “Happy,” he croaked, and he pulled his forehead away from the window.  A profound hush fell over the car; it was literally the first thing he’d said in hours.  “Happy, please tell me there is liquor in this vehicle.” 

Without comment, Happy popped the glovebox and produced half a pint of bourbon.  He held it back over his shoulder.

“Thanks,” Tony said, taking it gratefully, and unscrewed the cap.  He took a long, burning swig, and then pressed the bottle into Rhodey’s extended hand.  Rhodey drank, coughed, and held it towards Pepper.  Her nose wrinkled and then, to everyone’s surprise, she drank, too. 

The bottle moved silently between the three of them until it was empty.

“That?  That back there?”  Rhodey said finally, jabbing a thumb towards the rear window, “That was _messed up_.”

“Oh, God, it was,” Pepper agreed, “The very idea of it.  That we should—should celebrate the life of that _monster_.”  She shuddered and shook her head.  “I should have found an excuse for you, Tony, so you didn’t have to go.  I should have said—God, I should have said anything.  I’m so sorry, Tony.  Tony?  Tony!”

Tony was weeping, very quietly, into Rhodey’s shoulder.  He was 38 years old, no spouse, no children, and now no parents.  He didn’t even have a dog.  What he had instead were an undiagnosed case of PTSD, a foundering company, and the crippling weight of a family name that he now bore alone. 

He didn’t want them.  Any of them.                 

10:45 am.  Brooklyn.  Steve’s Apartment.

 When Steve got back from his run around ten, Tony was still comatose, sleeping soundly in the drawn-curtain twilight.  He didn’t even twitch when Steve came into the bedroom to shower and change into fresh clothes.  Now showered, shaved, and dressed, Steve stood at the foot of the bed, toweling his hair, and considered the sleeping Tony.  He looked like a Raggedy-Ann doll dropped face-down from great height, arms and legs splayed haphazardly beneath the sheets, claiming most of the available real estate.  Tony slept on his stomach, always, even though he claimed it caused wrinkles.  This was okay with Steve, since he actually liked Tony’s laugh lines, not that he would ever, _ever_ be stupid enough to mention it.  Tony didn’t _have_ wrinkles, at least in the world according to Tony.

Steve hung the damp towel back up in the bathroom, threw back the curtains to let in the daylight, and then eased down to sit on the edge of the bed.  He was sure--well, pretty sure--that everything was okay now, and he smoothed a hand tenderly across Tony’s tousled hair and then down his sandpaper cheek.  Tony’s single visible eye (the other was smashed down into the pillow) opened one pained crack.

“Mmwhtmst?” Tony mumbled into the pillow.

“Didn’t catch that,” Steve said fondly.

“What time is it?” He rolled over, groaning, and scrubbed a hand over his face.  

“Almost eleven.”

“And what time did we go to bed?”

“Around four.”

“Steve,” he said irritably, “I can do math.  And that does not add up to fifteen uninterrupted hours.”  He pulled the sheet up over his face.

“No, you’re right.  it doesn’t,” Steve laughed, “but if you sleep all day, you’ll never get back on a regular schedule.”

“Was I on one before?” This from under the sheet.

Steve changed tactics, “Alright, how’s this for incentive?  If you get up now, the coffee will still be hot, and I’ll make you breakfast.”  The sheet descended slowly, revealing a narrow-eyed Tony, clearly weighing his options.

“Is there chlorophyll?” Tony asked appraisingly.

“No.  The bottle in the back of the refrigerator was six months past the expiration date, and I threw it out.”

“Why didn’t you use it?”

“Because I like eggs and bacon and milk and other foods that don’t taste like grass clippings.”

“Ugh.  Fine.  Is there still Nutella?”

“That tub of glorified icing you bought?  Yes.  So you’ve gone from wanting liquid grass clippings to pure sugar in less than ten seconds?  I feel like that says something about the grass clippings.”  

“I have a refined palate, Steve, which means I can appreciate many things.  Is there toast?”

“There could be.”

“Fine,” Tony assented grudgingly, and threw off the bedclothes.  In typical Morning Tony fashion, he did not comment on the fact that Steve had retrieved his pajamas from the living room floor and folded them neatly across the foot of the bed.  Normally, Steve would have prodded him for a ‘thank you,’ but the large and livid bruise blooming on the side of Tony’s neck eyed him accusingly, and he didn’t.

Back in his pajamas, Tony slouched to the kitchen after Steve, making malcontent growling noises like a bear prematurely roused from hibernation.  He sat down heavily at the tiny kitchen table, burying his face in his crossed arms until Steve brought him coffee, followed shortly thereafter by toast, thickly spread with chocolate.  Steve sat down, too, with his own mug and a copy of the _Times_.  Tony stuck out his hand, and Steve mutely relinquished the business section. They ate and read in companionable silence.  Tony refilled his mug several times, and Steve was mostly through arts and leisure before he felt Tony’s eyes boring through the back of his paper.  

“Yes?” He said, lowering the paper.

“I’ve been thinking.  About what you said last night,” Tony looked, for once, quite serious. Steve folded the paper away.  “If names are symbols, what is mine a symbol for?  The name ‘Stark’ comes with a lot of baggage. We’re talking full-flight, Havana to New York, every suitcase filled with duty-free rum and cigars, levels of baggage here.”

“What does that--what does that even mean?”

“It means the name “Stark” is a disaster.  It means one match and the whole place goes down in flames.  It means Howard and his piss-poor fathering.  And Obie’s war-profiteering.  And my fucking terrible reputation.  And all the money and fame and scandal and accompanying bullshit--”

“May I say something?”  Steve asked.  Tony waved a permissive hand.  “Okay, yes, all those things you said, those are associated with the name ‘Stark.’  But so is the arc reactor.  So is Iron Man.  It’s not just bad things, Tony; it’s good things, too.  Amazing things.”

“I know that,” Tony sighed, “And, these days, I’m trying real hard to make the good stuff outweigh everything else, but there is a _lot_ of everything else.  And, Steve, while I’m happy that you’ve come to terms with your shit childhood, I still fucking _hate_ mine.  It’s great that being a fatherless newsie turned you into Captain America, but all I turned into was a piping hot mess.”

“That isn’t true,” Steve said fervently.

“Oh, it’s true,” Tony said, just as fervently, “it’s just less true than it used to be.  Anyway, point is, I’m not going to let you be another bellhop hauling around the Stark-family baggage.”

Steve tried to interrupt, but Tony held up a hand, “Let me finish.  I don’t wanna drag it around either.  Which is why--drumroll, please--I’m taking _your_ name now.”  He stuck the hand out over the kitchen table, “Tony Rogers.  Pleased to meet you.”

Steve’s felt his eyebrows lift practically to his hairline.  Tony looked like the cat that ate the canary.  

*****************************************

When it became apparent that Steve would not be shaking on it, Tony folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair, smirking contentedly.  Shocking Steve was one of his favorite pastimes.

“When . . . did you decide this exactly?”  Evidently, Steve had recovered the power of speech.

“Last night.  Between the speech and the sex.  It was a short window. ”  

And, remarkably, when Tony woke up seven hours later, it had still seemed like a good idea.   _Anthony Edward Rogers_.  He had continued to mull it over during breakfast, knowing that sometimes one finds sanity at the bottom of a coffee mug, but he finished his first cup and then his fourth and found he still had no reservations.   _Anthony Edward Rogers_ : he liked it.  He definitely liked it.  So he sprung it on Steve.

“Are you sure?”  Steve scrubbed at the back of his neck, “I mean, really sure?  What about your company?  You’re not worried about, I don’t know, name recognition or something?”

“Yes, yes, and no.  Yes, I am totally, 100% sure.  Yes, I am really, totally, 100% sure.  And, Steve, name recognition?  Seriously?  Captain America and Iron Man are getting married.  It’s going to be bigger than the royal wedding.  We’re going to be front-page news in every paper.  Everyone will still know who I am afterwards.  I mean, you still know Kate’s maiden name, right?”  Steve had an unhealthy love for the royal wedding.  Tony was pretty sure the PBS broadcast was still floating around the DVR.

“Middleton,” Steve answered promptly, “But, Tony, why do you want to?”  Steve looked . . . suspicious was the wrong word.  He looked concerned, maybe, like Tony had recently experienced head trauma, and now Steve wasn’t sure he should make major life decisions.  It hurt Tony’s feelings. Everyone always assumed his more generous decisions were impulsive, as if, once he bothered to think them through, he would inevitably do something selfish.  Well, the joke was on Steve.  This decision was entirely selfish . . . well, 65% selfish, anyway.

“Why do you think?” Tony asked, peevishly.  “Because I love you, Steve.”

“Oh, Tony, you don’t need to--”

“Fine.  Because I _want_ to, okay?  Because every time I introduce myself, I want people to know who my family is.  My family now.  Because I want everyone to know that _I_ locked down Captain America.  Because I think that ‘Anthony Edward Rogers’ sounds fly, and I want it on my driver’s license.  Because names are symbols, and I want the one that stands for goodness and fidelity and sanity and, and--I’ve made up my mind about this, and it’s either going to be Tony Rogers or Mrs. Captain America.  I’ll let you choose.”  

Steve blinked at him across the long moment of silence that followed.  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”  He said finally, his voice inflected with gentle wonder.

“As a heart attack.”

“Well, I--gee,” he took Tony’s hand, “I’d be honored for you to take my name, Tony.  Truly.”  This, coming from a man with a Purple Heart and a Medal of Honor.  And damn if it didn’t look like Steve’s eyes had started to water.  

“Great.  Mrs. Captain America it is.  I’ll tell the non-denominational officiant.”

1:36 PM.  Manhattan.  Social Security Administration Office.  Six Months Later.

Tony jiggled his foot, and then jiggled it some more, consulting his number for the hundredth time.  It was still 147, same as it had been when he’d ripped it from the ticket dispenser two hours ago.  To add insult to injury, he’d left his phone in the glove-box, and now he was so bored, his eyes had started to cross.

In desperation, he began to paw through the pile of well-thumbed magazines sitting on the little plastic table next to his chair.  He was hoping for _National Geographic_ , but after the fifteenth _Ladies’ Home Journal_ , has wasn’t feeling optimistic.  And then, just as he was about to settle for _Cooking Light_ , there they were.  He and Steve.  In tuxedos and pocket-squares, looking at one another gooily on the cover of _People_ magazine.  Glancing around furtively, he snatched it up.  Steve had insisted on having press at the wedding, spouting something about _important statement for marriage equality_ , and _we’ll give the money to charity_ , and blah, blah, blah.  Tony had agreed, in exchange for the exclusive right to pick the cake.  After all, good relationships were predicated upon compromise.

He flipped to the photo spread.  Despite the black tie trappings, the magazine had not managed to make them look either glamorous or dignified.  The splash under the headline showed them both laughing.  Steve’s face was covered in crumbs and frosting, and he was reaching for Tony with sticky fingers, clearly out for revenge.  The next page showed the subsequent action--Tony, in a headlock, with Steve squishing icing into his hair, and then a shot of the two of them kissing, both their faces crusted with crushed cake.  He turned to the next page: the two of them at dinner, shot in a soft focus, the background awash in twinkling lights.  Tony was sloshing his champagne and leaning over to whisper something in Steve’s ear.  Tony couldn’t remember what he’d been saying, but from the sly smile on his face in the picture, he guessed it was filthy.  Steve, for his part, looked delightfully scandalized and deliriously happy.  

There was a noise from behind the magazine: the unmistakable shutter-sound of a picture being taken.  He lowered the magazine just as the offending party stuffed the phone back into her purse.  She sat in the chair beside him, trying to look casual, flipping through the pages of her library book as if trying to find her place.  

“So,” he said, matter-of-factly, “That was rude.”

She was young, twenty-five at the outside, and she folded like a house of cards in the face of his mild rebuke.  Her face turned instantaneously pink, “Oh, God.  I know it was. I’m so sorry.  I’ll delete it,” she pulled the phone from her bag, unlocking the screen, “it was just so, so . . . you know?  You, with the magazine, and you, again, on the cover of the magazine--I couldn’t help it,” she held up the phone for his inspection.  It was a good picture, funny.

“Eh,” he shrugged, softening, “Keep it.  Post it.  Sell it.  Whatever.”

“Really?  Are you sure?”

“Yeah, why not?  I mean, there’s a picture of me Frenching Steve right here on page 27.  They cropped it out, but I’m pretty sure my hand is on his ass, too.”  He held up the magazine, tapping the photo with his finger.

“Ha.  Well, thanks.”   She put the phone back in her bag and pretended to go back to her book, but Tony could feel her looking at him from the corner of her eye . . . just like he was side-eyeing her while pretending to read his magazine.  Who was he kidding?  He let the magazine fall into his lap.

“What’re you in for?” he asked.

“Oh, um, name change.”  She held up her hand, flashing him a shiny new wedding band.  

“I thought that the independent young women of America were all keeping their last names these days.”

“They are.  Unless their maiden name happens to be ‘Branstool,’ in which case, they cannot wait to get rid of it.”

“Branstool, huh?  That . . . yeah, not gonna lie.  That is not great.  What are you changing it to?”

“ _Smith_ ,” and she sighed dreamily, “Isn’t it terrific?  I’ve thought about it and thought about it, and I still can’t figure out a single way to make fun of ‘Mrs. Smith.’  How about you?  What’re _you_ in for?”

He, too, held up a banded finger.  

“Yeah?  Are you guys going with Stark-Rogers or Rogers-Stark?”

“Neither. _I’m_ going Rogers.  Whole-hog.  Full stop.”

“Really?  Why?  I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“Well--” Well?  Well, _what?_ What, exactly, was he planning to say here?  His life’s story, and its relationship to his family name, was long, personal, and probably X-rated.  Fuck.   _Fuck_.  It suddenly occurred to him that he was going on _Graham Norton_ next week, and Graham would ask him this very fucking question, guaranteed.  And, of course, he’d already told his publicist he wasn’t going to do any pre-interview, thank you very much, and that he didn’t give a shit what they asked him as long as they had single-malt scotch.  The smile on the newly-minted Mrs. Smith was starting to falter in the face of his protracted silence, and his brain, usually so reliable in these situations, was _not_ supplying him with a pithy response.

“Well,” a big square hand landed on his shoulder, “Tony told me he was either going to be Tony Rogers or Mrs. Captain America.  I told him I liked ‘Mrs. Captain America,’ but now Tony won’t put his money where his mouth is.  Here, Tony.”  A large Styrofoam coffee cup appeared in front of Tony’s face.  “Sorry it took so long.  The coffee machine in the lobby ate my dollar, and I had to go to that place down the street.  If I’ve learned anything being married to Tony, it’s that you do _not_ show up empty-handed from a coffee run.  It’s come back with the coffee or don’t come back at all.”

Tony tipped up his chin to meet Steve’s warm blue gaze.  He was wearing his beat leather jacket and his Brooklyn Dodgers cap and that ridiculous blonde beard, and Tony loved him so much it made his heart hurt.

“Finally!  I was beginning to think I’d have to send out a search party.  For the coffee, I mean.  Not for you.”

“Gosh, Tony, that’s really sweet.  I hope Mr. Smith is as sweet to you as Mr. Rogers here is to me,” said Steve, giving the girl a wink.  Mrs. Smith was looking distinctly star-struck.  Tony didn’t blame her; Captain America winking at you did tend to have that effect.  “Hey, Tony,” Steve said suddenly, pointing to the big red-lettered screen on the other side of the waiting room, “aren’t you 147?”

“147, come on down!” Tony said, doing his best Rod Roddy, and bounced to his feet, “You got the marriage license?”

“I do.  And you--you still want this?”

“I do,” Tony snagged Steve’s elbow, and then kissed him, going up on his toes, grabbing Steve’s collar with both hands.  From the vicinity of his vacated chair, he heard a camera shutter.  Whatever.  She could keep that one, too.

Fin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, kudos-ing, commenting, and subscribing. It means a lot :) Also, wouldn't Tony would be a truly excellent guest on the Graham Norton couch? Actually, someone needs to write the Graham Norton all Avengers couch fic. Preferably today. Make sure you send me the link :D One last thing before I go: I meant to say this on the last chapter, but if you've never seen The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, do yourself a favor and watch it. Seriously. It's funny and atmospheric and heart-breakingly romantic. Also, Laura and To Catch a Thief are on Netflix RIGHT NOW. So, like, watch those, too. This has been your classic movie public service announcement :)


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